Between Pages
by Celesteennui
Summary: Bits of Hawke's tale that didn't make it into the cut relayed to Cassandra. Kirkwall was an interesting place between 9:30 and 9:37 Dragon, even more so when one spent their days in Hawke's company. A collection of snippets in no particular order; main pairing of Female Hawke/Fenris, and rated for language, violence, and liberal smatterings of smut.
1. Stoking The Flames

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, please don't sue me.

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Once, Hawke had a lover who compared her to an ember. Carlyle, his name was. Such a silly boy, he had wanted to be minstrel in the king's court one day (he would eventually settle for marrying a merchant's daughter). The silliness had been part of the appeal, though, that and he had a marvelous technique with his tongue. She'd never loved him but she _had_ been quite fond, especially when he waxed poetic with his chin resting on her belly.

Anyway, his comparison had been quite good. He talked about red flecks showing up in her dark brown hair in the dim torchlight by his bed. How heat simmered naturally just beneath her tan complexion, her lips in particular. And most flatteringly, Carlyle had told her the sun itself radiated in her eyes, turning them from tenné to true orange.

It was all silly pillow-talk, Hawke had told him so even when he had his tongue in her, and they both laughed about it. Still, Carlyle's ridiculous description, the one part of his long-winded speech she clearly remembers, "Hawke, burning like an ember against my sheets," pop right into her head when Fenris hovers above her. It's strange because, to her, it's her elf who seems to be burning up.

Between shoving each other against walls and stumbling up the stairway, there hasn't been much time for thought. Hawke wants Fenris, Fenris wants Hawke, and they've been stumbling/avoiding around it for years.

"You two will just blow up, like some of that Qunari powder, one day," Isabela had teased more than once when it was just them. And Merril. And Aveline. And Varric. Really, only Anders, Beth, and Fenris himself never got to hear Isabela's little "passion prophecy"; as far as Hawke knows anyway. "It'll be a hot day; you'll glare at one another from across the room, and _BOOM! _He's going to have your legs over his shoulders while you try to muss his tattoos with those pitiful blunt nails of yours."

Maker, it is the _worst_ when Isabela's right.

Fenris' gauntlets clatter to the floor and his bare hands find her cheek and neck as he comes back for a kiss that's more teeth than lips.

Maker it is the _best_ when Isabela's right.

And the worst.

In the morning, she'll flip a coin, right now Hawke kicks off her boots while simultaneously attempting to get that stupid breastplate of his unbuckled.

The boots she manages; how, only Andraste knows. The breastplate she leaves to Fenris, working instead on the belt to her house robes. They both accomplish their goals at about the same time and lunge for one another without hesitation. There's a need to touch skin, to feel anything and everything that neither of them seem to be able to bat away.

Hawke pushes aside his vest, marveling at the lean, hard muscle beneath. Her mouth maps the contours of bone and sinew while her tongue traces the Lyrium lines on his throat. Fenris shivers, swears, and struggles with her breast-band.

They separate again; he can't figure out the little buttons and she really has no hope of getting him out of his leggings. She's not even sure how it's possible for him to be wearing the blighted things, they're on so tight. For a man who hates sorcery, Fenris seems to employ it around his trousers in the most frustrating way.

Hawke does manage to note, through this haze of lust and want, that Fenris wears plain white underclothes. Isabela pervades her thoughts yet again and Hawke can't suppress a giggle or two. Her rival-turned-lover only raises an eyebrow as he tosses his things aside.

"I think Isabela would be disappointed with how boring your smallclothes are," she explains.

A smirk curls on Fenris' mouth as he climbs back onto her bed. He nods at her own unmentionables, tossed into a corner. "Not all of us are nobility who can afford pretty silk things to cover ourselves, you know."

She snorts, pulling herself (or maybe she's being pulled) to him. Whatever the case may be Hawke settles happily in Fenris' lap. "I'm _not_ nobility. I'm an apostate's brat. Though," she grins, knowing she must look like a desire demon, "_if_ it's an issue, I'd be more than happy to spread the wealth and buy you some fancy smallclothes too."

"As long as you don't tell Isabela what color they are, I won't say no."

Hawke laughs again, though the sound ends abruptly. Fenris swallows it, steals it, claiming her lips for another kiss while she's distracted by thoughts of a frustrated Isabela.

_And _Fenris wearing silk smalls, that's even more distracting. And even more delicious than the face Isabela makes when she's the one being confounded.

They return to their previous silent, wanton state, though far less hurried. There's no room for talking when there's so much to feel and feel is what Hawke does. In fact, she burns.

Fenris is like a brand against her. Every inch of skin pressed to his sizzles. Hawke wouldn't be surprised to see smoke rising from between them. Her flesh should be blistering beneath the hand he combs through her hair, down her neck, and across the swell of her breast. She cries out with every scorching kiss that he lays on her throat; the bed, it seems, is an oven now and she'll be nothing but a pile of ashes once they're done.

Vaguely, while gasping for breath and nibbling on his ear (he makes the _best_ noise when she touches his ears) Hawke recalls what he told her in not so long ago, about never being with anyone before. She doesn't think it was a lie, but she does think that there are couplings he might not recall. Fenris is good at touching, "good" being a paltry description of the sensations he rakes across her nerve endings. There's no virginal awkwardness to the way he kisses, holds, or caresses her and his calloused fingers are particularly deft in their exploration. His hand splays over her cunt reverently before his thumb finds her clitoris, pressing and pinching so that she wails. Hawke has been wet enough since the hallway, she drips as Fenris' fingers slid in, curling and uncurling, searching for the spot that'll make her see stars. He finds it (of course), she screams, and he chuckles smugly against her collarbone.

If Fenris hasn't had other sexual partners, then Hawke is a dragon. Since she sadly cannot send her enemies running by blowing on them, she's going to continue counting herself as human.

And, for now, she'll also ignore the dark, angry wisp burgeoning in her chest at the thought of anyone else touching what's hers.

_Hers_? Andraste's knickerweasels, she's turned into a bloody Kirkwaller.

Ideally, Hawke would like this to play out for some time. There's nothing nicer than a night full of good, slow love-making. She hasn't tasted Fenris' cock after all, and with what he can do to her with just his fingers, she _really_ wants to find out what his mouth could do down there. Hawke suspects his talents would take away feeling in her legs for days.

She's so close though, and so is he, she can feel the tip of his cock leaking against her thigh. They'll both plummet over soon, and as draining as today has been, both physically and emotionally, there won't be any repeat performances. Not tonight, anyway.

He hisses when she takes hold of him, the hand spread over her back twitches, fingers curling into the skin hard enough that there will be marks. That's fine with Hawke; she's all for being marked after a good fuck, even more so by Fenris.

Only one question glance comes her way as she nudges aside the hand he has pleasuring her. It's not shy, just a considerate "are you sure?" that's spoken with the flag of an eyebrow. She affirms her decision with a hard kiss as she lines herself up. He thrusts, she pushes, and the kiss morphs into the two of them breathing heavily into one another's mouths.

That sensation of being set ablaze has returned, though Hawke can't really say that it ever left. Fenris fills her and white-hot pleasure ripples through her body. Her breath comes in heavy, hard pants—the very air around them feels as if it's crackling. She's suffocating, or maybe drowning, whatever it is, it is absolutely beautiful.

They rock together, not slow but tense and determined. She feels everything. Every tremor in him, when he swallows, when he blinks. Hawke feels Fenris within her in ways that have little to do with penetration. Forehead to forehead, she's locked in his eyes, or maybe he's locked in hers, and that's where she's determined to exist. For the moment, for the night, for the rest of her life and she needs it more than the air that just won't seem to stay in her lungs.

She gets her wish; Fenris climaxes first and Hawke watches her reflection fill his bright green eyes, knowing that in this moment every thought and motion he makes is centered upon it. He is hers, she is his, and nothing else matters.

The intensity of her own orgasm rends her half-unconscious. Bliss explodes in Hawke's veins and the world darkens, though it does not fall to complete blackness. White spots bounce in and out of her field of vision when she comes back to herself moments later, half-remembering her name.

She will think about being an ember again in the morning, when he leaves her alone in her bed offering sad excuses. Fenris leaves her smoldering, abandoned like a hasty campfire. Hawke will think about it again when anger and sadness swell inside of her at the very mention of his name months later, leaving a ball of unbearable warmth between her ribs and gut. When months later, when she'll finally deign to be alone with him again because she keeps her promises and he needs help learning to read. For three long years whenever their eyes meet while playing cards or on a job and she refuses to look away first. Hawke holds the heat inside of her, grasps it firmly and never lets it go both because she cannot and because she's too damned stubborn to give up. Fenris has led them to a pyre this night and it's Hawke who'll have to endure and carry the heat until he's ready to share it again.

Maker, Carlyle would have turned them into an awful poem.

That all comes later, however. At this moment, Hawke coos and cards Fenris' hair while they struggle to catch their breaths. For now, the fire crackles contentedly.


	2. Friendship Is A Hangover

**Disclaimer:** I don't own a damn thing, please don't sue me.

**Author's Note:** Varric is my favorite person ever. In my head-cannon he is, without a doubt, Hawke's dearest friend and always will be.

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The thing Varric has really come to love about Hawke in the four years or so of their friendship is, aside from that smart mouth of hers, she always follows through. She'll always have something smart to say about it, but she doesn't let a body down and she will go miles for a friend.

Or whatever it is exactly that she and Fenris are, but that's nitpicking.

She doesn't leave him when they make it back from Bartrand's manse. Hawke sticks to his side like a burr while he goes about contacting men to take him to the asylum. The only time during the next two days that he doesn't see her is when she escorts Blondie back to his clinic after he's given the asylum healers his assessment.

And privy breaks, but again, that's just nitpicking.

Hawke is at his elbow for every migraine-inflicting second of the process. If that weren't enough once the mess is done, for the moment, anyway, she buys drinks. Many drinks. Varric reckons she might just actually be a Surface Paragon. That's if he actually believed Paragons were worth a nug's rump (he doesn't).

Hawke is better.

She springs for the good rum that Corff hides in the back. Despite being from the Hanged Man, it _is_ actually good. Spiced and black, Varric would liken the taste to ginger drops; if ginger drops burned the throat when swallowed and made a body stumble. Well, Hawke's body anyway. She's no lightweight, but she comes up lacking when compared to his Dwarven constitution for spirits.

They sit at the big table in his room, drinking in silence for a long time. It's a comfortable quiet; they have the sort of friendship that doesn't require much talking for things to be easy. Varric has always been grateful for that, especially now. He can't picture sorting the whirlpool in his head with a chatterbox hanging over him. Even with the rum.

"What was your brother like?" Varric surprises himself with the question that he finally decides to break the silence with.

Hawke looks over at him, apparently of a similar mind, if her raised eyebrows are anything to judge by. That could just be the drink, though.

Carver Hawke is one of the things that his big sister doesn't wear on her sleeve; Varric can count the times she's said his name on one hand. He hears more about her father—a character that even Varric's wild imagination can barely grasp—than the brother that didn't make it out of Fereldan's Korcari Wilds.

He doesn't think she's going to answer. Her whiskey-fire eyes have shut off and her face is still. It worries him, to say the least; Varric can handle Hawke when she makes inappropriate jokes or the rare instances of her rage. He has no idea what to do with an empty Hawke.

Finally, she downs what was left in her cup—which is a lot—and says, "He was a bloody fool."

That's as much as she's going to say, Varric is sure, there's such finality to her voice when she says those words. Then Hawke licks her lips, slumps back in her chair, and continues. "You couldn't tell him anything. He was the baby so Mother never dumped any responsibility onto _his_ shoulders." Varric doesn't miss the exhaustion and venom that slip into in her tone there. He likes Leandra, she's a lovely, sweet woman, but as long as he's known Hawke he's also known her mother to lean on her like _she's_ the family matriarch and not vice versa. "He hated moving so often when we were younger, resented all of the running away, and Father for needing to spend so much time training Beth."

Refilling her cup, Hawke looks at it for a few seconds, as if there's something fascinating on the rim that she's just discovered. "He was always so damn angry, always complaining about how he'd never get out of my shadow and that he couldn't wait to be his own man."

A ghost of a smile flickers over her face, accompanied by a laugh that's just as hollow. "He just about had an apoplexy when I signed up for the army before he did. I did it just to push his buttons, really. That and Lothering had gotten so…so…_itchy_ after Father passed. It wasn't home anymore, not really, not without him."

The air goes still again as Hawke's eyes take on another disquieting light. Unlike before, though, they seem to be regarding his wall, looking at something only she could ever see. Guilt gnaws at Varric's ribs; whatever distraction he'd been hoping for when he spoke, it wasn't supposed to rip scars open on his friend's back.

"Do you know what I'll always remember?" she asks just as Varric's about to try and steer the conversation away from this gloom. Hawke doesn't wait for him to answer; she's looking toward him, not at him, so he doesn't expect her to. "The last day at Ostagar. We were part of a scouting unit so they had us on the walls for the big battle, helping with the ballistas and whatnot. We were standing right above the king when the signal came and Loghain never answered. Out of nowhere, there was an ogre on the field and it just picked up King Cailen. It picked him up and broke him like a doll in spite of all of his fancy armor."

Her fingers clench and unclench around her cup; Varric hopes she doesn't break it. He hopes even more that she'll forgive him for dredging all of this up for her later. "Carver grabbed my hand. He _never_ grabbed my hand, not since he was six. But he did then and he held onto me and he was shaking. It wasn't that the king had died, it was what he saw in that _thing_; he was terrified of the ogre, of ending up so helpless like that." She takes a long drink, deep without swilling the entire contents down this time. Her voice is flat, very nearly lifeless when she says, "And so he charged the next one he saw."

Varric sees Bartrand when she says that. The defeat on her face is line-by-line a perfect match for the kind that had overtaken his brother's face when Mother died.

There's a lot that Hawke and Bartrand have in common, Varric now realizes. Responsibility was thrust upon both of their shoulders when they were too young to comprehend what it was going to mean in the long run. Helping to keep your apostate sister and father safe had to be as hard as rebuilding a exiled family's fortune, another venture that she shared with Bartrand. Maybe it was the strong ties with her parents; Malcolm had obviously been a loving father and Leandra, for all her delicateness, had never given up, never turned to drink as Mother had. Maybe Hawke was simply lucky. Perhaps it was both of those things or something else.

In any case, Varric is glad that she's with him, infinitely glad, and he expresses that as best as all of the rum he's imbibed will allow.

"Here's to fool brothers," he holds his cup out toward her. "May they find some bloody piece and give us a bit too."

A smile—a real one, all teeth and sneaky dimples—spreads over Hawke's face at that, chasing the melancholy away. She raises her own cup and butts it against his, a little too forcefully, with rum slopping out of both containers, but Varric doesn't mind. Hawke bought the stuff, she can toss it out the window if she so pleases.

"I'll drink to that, my friend."


	3. The V Word

**Disclaimer:** Bioware owns it all, I'm just playing around.

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Bethany is a terrible card player, still, she goes to the Hanged Man with her sister every time she's invited (which is every time that her sister goes out). There's an atmosphere around the big table in Varric's suite that's warm, homey even. Certainly when compared to the alternative of Gamlen's passive-aggressive hostility and Mother's fluctuating depression/wrathful writing to the Viscount.

She should probably feel guiltier than she does for wanting to be away from her poor mother but Bethany just can't muster it. She's got her own worries, her own grief, and, luckily, friends to lessen all of that.

Well, most of the time, they do that. Isabela's amusement upon finding Hawke's little sister is a frustrating thing to bear. Especially when they're playing cards.

"So have you even seen a man naked?" The question comes out of nowhere. One moment Bethany is looking at her hand, trying to decide whether or not she's folding or putting down another copper, chatting with Anders about helping him make poultices for the clinic sometime soon. The next Isabela is throwing inappropriate queries her way.

She continues as heat spreads over Bethany's face, and the rest of the table chatter ebbs. "I mean, you do at least know which bits go where, right? You have the basic idea of what a c—"

"Maker's sake, Isabela!" The hiss passes her lips far more shrilly (and loudly) than Bethany would have liked. If the others _hadn't_ started listening in already, they were now.

Isabela isn't ruffled in the slightest; on the contrary—which Bethany was already aware of and perhaps should have remembered—the (former) pirate captain feeds off of other people's mortification. She bats her eyelashes. "What? I'm just concerned! Call it an immoral obligation! Pretty thing like you, it should be an offense worthy of hanging that some strapping lad or busty lass hasn't come along and tossed your skirts of your head and f—"

The rant is cut off by a half-eaten apple hitting Isabela square in the mouth, just in time for her teeth to clamp down on it. She looks like a very surprised piglet for a few moments before spitting it out and tossing it back from where it came. Marian catches it with one hand and a reproving smirk.

"What the hell?" Isabela doesn't seem offended or angry, just surprised. Offended/angry would be Fenris, who is scowling at her sister. Evidently—if Bethany's is guessing right—it was _his_. She is indeed guessing right.

"I was eating that," the elf says.

Marian wrinkles her nose at him. "Untwist your knickers; I'll buy you a whole bushel tomorrow." Her attention switches in a blink to Isabela, who is wiping around her mouth. "And _you_, no one makes my little sister turn the color of an eggplant except for me."

Out goes Isabela's lower lip. "Aw! But corrupting the innocent is so much fun, Hawke! It's kind of like my signature. That and great tits."

Aveline doesn't miss a beat nor does she look up from her cards. "'_Great'_ is pushing it. They aren't bad. And don't sit there and pretend that they don't sag a bit when that bustier comes off."

"You take that back, my tits are perfect!"

The subject of Bethany's virginity is quickly forgotten (thank Andraste) as Isabela jumps up and starts to strip, intent on proving Aveline wrong. Indeed, the entire card game is forgotten while insults fly, some try to get Isabela back into her shirt, others egg the argument on (to get her back out of the shirt) and Edwina comes up the stairs, sees them, then walks straight back down.

It takes a while for things to quiet down again. Long enough that no one is very interested in cards once they get back to it. The game folds, Varric wins by default, and they disperse pleasantly enough.

Since Anders lives in Dark Town and Marian is protective of her own, she walks him back to his clinic. Because Bethany goes everywhere her sister does, she tags along. And because Fenris is adamant on repaying Marian for her help (though if that's the only reason, Bethany will eat her boots) he walks with them. Aveline's presence on the trek to Dark Town is new, though she discovers the reason quick enough.

Passing the foundry district, Aveline touches Bethany's arm, motioning for her to let the others walk ahead. It doesn't worry her, per say, the guardswoman is family, after all, though the intent light in her eyes is intriguing.

"Don't let Isabela bother you," she tells her, voice low so that the conversation stays private. "Being a virgin doesn't make you strange or even a prude. You know your body and what you want. She knows that too, she's just being insufferable."

Usually, conversations like this leave Bethany uncomfortable, perhaps because she's only ever had them with Mother or Marian. Sex is just a prickly thing to talk about with family especially when her sister has been confidently taking up lovers since she was fifteen. Marian is not quite as free as Isabela, but she _has_ always been confident with her body and desires. Just part and parcel with being the eldest child blessed with their father's charisma.

Aveline, though? Bethany isn't worried that Aveline will fret as Mother might or bristle with overprotectiveness as her sister almost certainly will. Again, Marian is protective of her own. Sometimes to the point of foolishness.

"Thank you," Bethany says. After a moment's hesitation and lip biting, the gentle smile on Aveline's face prompts her on. "It's not—" she glances at her sister's back to make sure she isn't listening. Marian is arguing about dogs being better than cats with Anders; things are safe. "—It's not like I haven't thought about it but…"

Aveline pats Bethany's shoulder as she squirms. "It's hard to find a lover to trust when you're just living. I can't imagine how difficult it must be when you're always on the edge of running."

"Exactly." She doesn't mean to sound so…_melancholy_ when she says it. It comes out that way, though, a painful mewl to her own ears.

Again, Aveline's big hand finds her shoulder, squeezing and lingering this time. The feel of it is not unlike Marian's would be or how Carver's used to be; reassuring, familial. "I'm not much for advice, at least not when doesn't involve blades or armor. Maker knows I'm absolutely useless when it comes to the heart, but I will tell you this much; there's nothing wrong with waiting for love to share yourself. And love? Well, that fickle little bitch has a way of biting you in the ass."

That gets a laugh. "Well, I wouldn't call it useless advice but certainly not romantic."

"Yes well, there's a difference between romance and love," Aveline chuckles. Her broad, freckled face goes wistful as she looks upward for a few seconds. "I never expected to be married; I was too focused on my duties and training. Wesley and I sort of just stumbled into one another—literally. I was running errands in Denerim and nearly knocked him over on my way to the armorers."

"That…actually sounds just like something you'd do." And it does, Bethany can picture a younger Aveline railroading a hapless Templar right into the mud then glaring at him

The older woman snorts, good humoredly though. "My point is that romance is smoke and mirrors, stuff to sell books and make children blush. Love, when it comes naturally, is much more mundane. The complicated stuff is for heroes and legends, poor sots that they are." Aveline squeezes her shoulder again. "I waited for love, and that was what I wanted. Maybe you will too. Maybe you won't. All that matters is that you're content with it when it happens. Since from what I've seen it appears that _you_ inherited all of the levelheadedness between your parents' children, I'm not all that worried for you."

It's strange. Bethany hadn't exactly been looking for comfort, she hadn't even realized that the issue of her…_inexperience_ was bothering her. It had been, though, and somehow Aveline has found the right words to make it all go away. Once upon a time, that had been what Father was best at, since his death, she's always turned to Marian. Knowing that someone else is there to take the slack up, to talk about the things she's not sure she can take to her sister is…

Nice. It's very, very nice.

"You know, you're much better at advice that doesn't have to do with blades and armor than you give yourself credit for," she tells her.

"Thank you. I do try." One more pat on the shoulder and Aveline retracts her arm. They don't speak for the rest of the walk, but the air is incredibly relaxed, far more so than Bethany can ever remember it being. That's even accounting for the shouting match that takes place halfway to the clinic when Anders complains about how dogs smell—especially big ones—and Marian gets him in a headlock.


	4. Her Choice

**Disclaimer:** Bioware owns it all, babes.

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"Why was your friend made Tranquil? Do you know?"

"No, and it doesn't matter. Nobody deserves that."

"I know some mages that deserve that."

"Really? Perhaps they should start making slaves Tranquil—then they wouldn't dream of escaping! Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"Slaves do not attract demons that try to possess them."

"Which clearly justifies it? What a _perfect_ solution!"

Anders is well aware that the bickering between Fenris and he drives Hawke up the wall. He is also fairly certain Fenris is aware of it; whatever can be said about the former slave, dense is not on the list. Mostly, anyway, because there is one thing that appears to be going straight over Fenris' head: they both want Hawke.

It's not a hard trap to get snared in. Hawke is intelligent, witty, strong, and (secretly) very kind; her pretty face is nothing to sneer at either, but nothing quite etches Marian Hawke in someone's heart like that razor-tipped mind/tongue. Or, at least, Anders doesn't know who could resist that sort of allure.

Fenris has not, though he doesn't seem to be aware that he's succumbed at all, not like Anders. As sullen as Fenris is, and as much as the two of them disagree, Hawke can always pull a smile from him—which she does often enough to make Anders' stomach hurt. Even more gut-wrenching is the knowledge that Hawke's eyes unconsciously follow Fenris' turned back just as his follow hers.

That's the biggest wedge between he and Fenris, even apart from their polarizing views on magic and those burdened with it. It's why they can't stop sniping. And it's how they nearly destroy the woman that they both need.

They've gone out on the Wounded Coast, he, Fenris, Hawke, and Bethany. It's for some Chanter's board errand or another to gather expedition funds. Hawke's work ethic and way of managing coin is one of the few things that make him miss the Vigil; it makes him think of the Commander. Elissa was a hard-nosed mabari bitch when it came to balancing the coffers and almost certainly still is. A must-have trait in good leaders, he supposes, or maybe just in Fereldan women.

Hawke's eyes also burn just as the Queen's would when she's finally had enough and turns to glare at them. It's a different color of fire; Elissa's was unbelievably blue, so hot that it chilled the bones as it cooked them, Hawke's is a golden-brown-orange that sears hope to a crisp. Both send primal twinges to hide through every inch of his being.

"That is _it_!" She turns so fast and forcefully that Anders and Fenris back step. Amidst the shame/fear, Anders finds himself being impressed; Hawke could make Nathanial envious with how quick she can be. And the Grand Cleric with the sternness that she can command. By the wideness of Fenris' eyes, he's of a similar mind. She jabs at the air in front of them; not touching but still Anders moves back again. "I am done with this! I've had enough of you two and your petty shit-slinging!"

Hawke's rage is not a pretty thing; it warps her features into something from a nightmare, mostly because of how rare it is and the terrible things that can follow. Not much has been able, in the months that Anders has seen, to rattle her charm and snark. The one and only time he can think of it was when a mercenary at the Hanged Man put his hand on Bethany's knee then grabbed her when she pushed him off. Without pause or regret, Hawke had broken the hand that touched her sister, his sword hand, little less than a death sentence for a man who made his living with it.

She probably _won't_ do that to them, they're her friends (or whatever Fenris qualifies as), but her hand and the gleam in her eye do not waver as she continues dressing them down. "If you two idiots haven't noticed, we're not in the safest place in the Marches. So, if you would, please, shut the fuck up, before every bandit or Tal-Vashoth camp on the coastline hears you and—"

Later, Hawke will joke about the Maker marking her life with such supreme irony. She'll smile that impish smile of hers, lighting the room up and make it seem all right. Anders will never feel like it's all right, though, neither will Fenris, he suspects. And every single time he has to heal her down the road, when she pulls her shirt aside and he sees the ragged scar left by the Tal-Vashoth spear that slams through her left shoulder, sending her flying face-first into the sand, he'll feel as if he's been gutted.

"Hawke!" He and Fenris shout in tandem while Bethany screams and dives down to her sister.

Instinct, for the first minutes, has them working together. Bethany sends a wave of fire in the direction of their enemies and Fenris guards her back, knocking more spears aside while Anders takes hold of Hawke and rolls them, as delicately as he can manage, to a drop-off on the cliff side. It's not delicate enough to keep from jarring the wound; more blood gushes out, Hawke screams, and Anders swallows bile. Bethany and Fenris leap down not a second later to the sound of shouting and narrowly beneath a barrage of blades.

Safe—for the moment—behind the barrier of rock and moss, the collusion of their venture falls apart.

"Maker, no!" Bethany kneels beside her sister, attempting to stopper the red outflow with shaking hands. "Marian—Oh!—_Marian_!"

It's the first time Anders has heard Hawke's true name, Bethany has always referred to her as "Sis" and the one time he had been to dinner with the family Leandra had never used it. He finds it jarring for her to be anything else besides Hawke, and it grinds the severity of the situation in almost as much as her rapidly paling face.

"Shh…Beth. It'll—it'll be fine. Promise." Hawke's voice shakes, she's so much more confident than she looks. "Give me some credit, yeah?"

"Well? What are you waiting for, Mage?" Fenris growls, jerking Anders from his fear-induced fog. "_Do_ something!"

Anders knows that the last thing that will help this situation is more arguing. Unfortunately, Fenris is something of a blind spot to Anders' common sense. He whirls on the elf, jabbing his breastplate. "Don't worry; I'll fix your mess! Why don't you just go distract the Qunari instead of bringing them down on us with more of your blasted barking?!"

Fenris is glowing, were the situation already not so dire, Anders might think that bickering with him was an ill-advised venture. But the situation is already too dire and, as mentioned, the former slave is a blind spot for his rage.

"_My_ mess? You—"

The light of Fenris' lyrium tattoos sputters out as the both of them find the opposite ends of Bethany's stave in their ribs, knocking them apart.

For sisters, Hawke and Bethany don't look much alike. Hawke is built like an acrobat, all smooth, hard muscle, strong shoulders, and calculated grace. Bethany is slighter, thin, and willowy; her hair is darker, her skin is paler, and her eyes are a soft blue. Her natural sweetness contrasts Hawkes unfailing wit perfectly. That sweetness evaporates when she is angry, and then, Anders finds, they couldn't look more alike.

"Blight take both of you, _shut up_!" Her body vibrates with anger—and with power, there's no mistaking that. Anders forgets sometimes, all of the potential inside of Bethany that she keeps an iron fist clamped upon. It shivers in the air around her now, in her eyes and the curve of her snarl.

"Listen. To. Me. Marian needs help. A _lot_ of help. And if you two can't call of your pissing contest to save her then I might as well knock you out and toss you up as bait." He doesn't doubt that she will do it. Not even a little. Hawke will face an army of Templars to keep Bethany free; in return, Bethany will turn anyone fool enough to threaten her sister's life to ash. At any other time Anders would call this fierce loyalty beautiful, when he's on the verge of being rent to pieces, however, he finds that a bit hard.

Only Hawke would be able to make light of this situation. "Well, damn, look at you putting on you big-girl boots. I should get stabbed more often."

Bethany's rage wavers as she turns back towards her sister. "You are such a wretch! Close your mouth and conserve your energy!"

While Hawke, ever the smart-ass, gestures as if she's locking her mouth up, Bethany heaves a put-upon sigh and gestures to Fenris. "You and I are going to go deal with our friends up there. Problems?"

"Not a one." Like him, the elf seems to have gotten the idea that giving any sort of objection will end in his death. It will be one of the few things Anders and he ever agree upon.

"Good. You," she jabs the end of her staff at Anders, "make sure my sister lives." She doesn't say "or else" but he feels it is strongly implied.

"It will take a lot," he warns her, already dropping to Hawke's side. He presses his hands around the wound, wincing as Hawke does when he sends waves of magic downward through the torn skin, muscle, and bone to slow the flow of blood. "For both of us. How many potions do we have?"

"Sixteen lyrium, thirty-two elfroot, twenty-one stamina draughts, and one elixir of purity," Hawke says at once. It doesn't surprise Anders; Hawke keeps a hard tab on everything. The poultices, the coin they make and she has to divvy up between them for each job, and probably even the cost in shoe-leather that every step takes.

Queen Elissa pops into his head again, just for a second.

"Give them here and _stop talking_." Bethany doesn't wait for Hawke to dig around on the supply bag. The younger woman unbuckles it from her sister's waist and pulls out the blue pouch where the lyrium flasks are kept. She takes four, stuffs them into her own belt, then hands the rest over to him along with half of the elfroot potions. "Here. Do whatever it takes."

Bethany doesn't wait for any response, she touches Hawke's hand only briefly, before standing and motioning for Fenris to follow her up back up the cliff side. He does as she bids him, with only one last look back at Hawke. Anders is not comforted when either of them disappear, not in the slightest.

He shakes his head, swallows the fear that's rising in his gullet, and gets to work.

Hawke's wound is a serious one, to say the least. Even in his clinic, he would be scared to touch it. Out here in the open, amidst the sounds of fighting, Anders is one breath away from pissing all over himself. He credits his time in Amaranthine and the siege of the Vigil from stopping that.

Only the Maker's grace kept the spear from her vital organs—there would be almost no way for him to save Hawke if her lungs or heart had been punctured. Not out here, not with only a handful of lyrium potions and healing poultices at his disposal. The wound could be closed but the resulting infection from their contamination would surely kill her.

Not to say that closing her up without that particular worry isn't an ordeal. The hole is massive, at least to his fearful eyes, with the head of the spear sticking clean through her front. The big artery, usually protected by shoulder and neck bones, has been opened. Her simple leather armor hadn't stood a chance. It has to be closed—and quickly—or she'll bleed out. It takes every ounce of concentration for Anders to slow the blood, knit tissue, bone, and veins back together, not to mention expelling all of the foreign impurities brought in by the spear. There's also the fact that the shrill of pain that Hawke gives when he's tearing the weapon out rattles his composure to the core.

Somehow, with luck and all of the potions Bethany left him, Anders succeeds. He's left about as weak as a kitten and Hawke's going to be even worse for a few days, but she's out of immediate danger.

Or at least that's what he believes until the sliding of rocks behind him registers.

One of the horned behemoths broke through. Anders doesn't want to think about how—Maker, if Bethany or even Fenris is seriously hurt…

No. _No. No. No._

He doesn't have the strength to fight back. The potions are gone, Hawke is barely conscious, and Anders isn't a fighter to begin with.

The pike that the Tal-Vashoth holds rises and Anders can only hope that Justice will make it back to the Fade in one piece. And, more importantly, that Hawke gets another miracle.

He doesn't hear Fenris, which is unusual, the elf growls a lot during a fight. More than a lot, actually, he turns into an animal and all you ever hear from him are inhuman grunts and cries as he cleaves his way through things. Anders isn't complaining though, far from it. In fact, he absolutely loves Fenris when that big sword of his neatly separates most of the horns (and the rest of the skull cap) from the kossith's head.

To be honest, he almost faints. But Hawke is still hurt, Bethany may be hurt yet, and he has _some_ pride. Instead, he finds himself grinning at Fenris and saying, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Considering how they normally act with one another, Anders would call that almost affectionate. At the very least, it's genial.

Rocks scatter again as Bethany returns. She's covered in blood just as Fenris is; mercifully, none of it seems to be their own. Other than being red-faced and worn from the fight, Bethany appears no worse for the wear. "Sis?" She all but throws her staff down and trips to get to Hawke's other side. Tears clean a trail through the red fluid and muck all over her pretty face.

Hawke snaps back to the waking world, as much as she can in any case, at the sound of her sister's voice. With much effort, she reaches out with her left arm, wrapping it limply across the Bethany's shoulders as the younger woman embraces her. Anders bites back a warning to be careful; if anyone knows to handle Hawke with care, it's her sister.

"Shh, sweetling," Hawke's voice is raspier than ever but it still full of that confidence so many people rely on, Bethany in particular. "I'll be fine. Anders took care of it. Please, Bethy, don't cry. Come on, now, you're so ugly when you cry."

Bethany's reply is muffled by Hawke's ruined undershirt but it definitely comes with a watery laugh. It's a true sign, however, that Hawke really will be all right.

Watching the sisters, lightheaded and dreading the walk back to Kirkwall, Anders has a bit of an epiphany.

It's never exactly been a secret that this little trip into the belly of the earth that Hawke's taking part in is to put coin between Bethany and the Templars. In part, it's probably for Leandra too, and even a bit to get away from their uncle's shack, but ninety percent of why Hawke has done everything this last year is for her sister. He's known Hawke long enough to be sure that Hightown means about a bucket of spit to her; she grew up running, fighting, and thinking, that's pretty much the opposite of a noblewoman.

The estate is for Bethany. The coin is for Bethany. This whole fiasco was, in a roundabout way, _for Bethany_.

Most importantly, Anders sees that, as long as Bethany is there, there will be nothing between him and Hawke. There will be nothing between Hawke and Fenris. No man will have the opportunity to win Hawke's heart because she's already devoted it to the care and comfort of her sister.

They make it back to the city mostly fine. Fenris has to carry Hawke—which she is not happy about in the least—and he has to lean on Bethany, but they move along fine. Their luck picks up not far down the coast when they run into a patrol of guardsmen. Hawke is well known to Aveline's underlings, or soon-to-be underlings, anyway, and they have a safe escort back through the walls.

Hawke makes them go to the Hanged Man, she doesn't want to worry her mother with her injuries, but she's fine with worrying Varric, which he does with aplomb. She commandeers her partner's suite while the dwarf gets cots brought in for Anders and Fenris. Varric will not hear of either of them going home until they've had a good night's (or is it day's?) rest. Anders is fine with that, though, he's fine with everything because they survived.

There's only one little thing that tugs sorrowfully at the edges of his mind. As Isabela, who is deceptively sweet and terrible at hiding her concern, lifts a cup of chilled, watered-down wine to his lips, he catches sight of Hawke. She's sitting against the headboard of Varric's bed, pillows piled behind her as she speaks to Fenris, grinning in that lopsided way that only she makes perfect. The elf sits on the edge the bed's other side, armor mostly off, familiar and smiling faintly. Bethany, now asleep is between them and her head has lulled to the side.

Not to her sister's shoulder, but to Fenris' and he does not seem to mind at all that a mage is using him as a pillow.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** My head-cannon Warden from Origins is Elissa Cousland, and yes, she romanced Alistair and became his queen, the Warden Commander of Amaranthine, and leader of the Fereldan standing army once her time at the Vigil was done. There are snippets of her story, told from Companions' POV on my tumblr under the title "Variations On The Word Love". My Warden may or may not be (she totally is) making an appearance here in later chapters.


	5. Vengeance Should Take Notes

Disclaimer: Bioware owns it all.

* * *

In all the years that Isabela has known Hawke, she's never known her friend to be particular about her clothes. Unless it's her armor. Hawke is a goddamn terror about getting properly armored, which honestly, is a very good thing. Especially considering all of the mortal injuries that the woman needs to avoid on a regular basis.

When it comes to everyday apparel, though, Hawke is lax. She has a few formal dresses that never get touched (one of the reasons Isabela gets away with borrowing them as often as she does), and few fancy suits. For every day, if she's not in her house robes—which are getting a bit worn due to her fondness—she wears simple things. Breeches, boots, shirt, occasionally a tunic, her hair swiped back in a tight tail or braid. She favors crimson and dark brown for colors, but other than that, she never has any particulars. Comfort is Hawke's primary concern; she doesn't have time for anything that would require more than ten minutes to put on.

Which is why, Hawke's apparel at that Friday's usual card game has Isabela's eyebrows up.

Dark red breeches, so dark they look black in dim enough lighting, cover Hawke's lower body, and they are _tight_, clutching at every curve, especially her bottom. Isabela's always thought that Hawke has a nice bottom, though. Her shirt is red as well, a lovely scarlet color that brings out the fire in her eyes—which she has painted with a dab of black and russet powder. The material of the shirt is thin but not transparent, it clings and drapes to the curve of her breasts (sadly, in Isabela's humble opinion, nothing to write home about), and is cut off the shoulder and plunged. A rich, dark brown leather bodice is laced from her lower abdomen to right beneath her breasts; it matches her vambraces and boots that rise just over her knees. To complete the wonder of it all, her hair is down.

Hawke does _not _wear her hair down. She hates her hair down. Something is up.

No one mentions anything about it during the first few rounds. Though, Fenris, who isn't wearing his armor for once, (oh yes, something is up) plays pitifully. Not as pitifully as Anders, but still.

Hawke deals herself out of the fourth game, and goes over to the bar. Isabela, of course, follows.

She doesn't bother with teasing it out of her. Isabela slides right up beside her and fingers the bodice's shoulder strap. "Well, don't you look nice tonight? What's the occasion?"

Hawke's fire-gold eyes flick to her and she smiles in feigned innocence. "What? I can't just try something new? Do I look bad?"

Isabela nudges her side. "You look good enough to bend over this bar and you know it. Always do, by the way."

Hawke laughs. "Well, thanks."

"Welcome, now tell me, what's going on?" She glances back across the room where the others are playing. Sebastian is talking to Fenris, who seems like he's _trying_ to listen but can't stop his attention from wandering over to the bar. To Hawke.

"Oh nothing," Hawke says taking a drink of her whiskey.

"Bullshit, I say."

"Yes, you often do." Aveline has apparently thrown in the towel as well. Or she's curious like Isabela. She glances at the guard captain, Aveline's eyes flick to Hawke's shirt, then back.

Yep, curious.

"What are you up to?" Big Girl asks taking a glass of wine from Corff and nodding her thanks. Her stare doesn't waver from Hawke's face.

"Why do I always have to be up to something?" Hawke demands, though she's clearly not offended. She can't wipe the smirk off of her face. "No one questions when 'Bela steals one of my dresses and fucks half the Blooming Rose in it. Why can't I wear a nice suit of clothes out for a fun evening with friends."

Aveline snorts. "No one questions what Isabela does because whores need no motive."

"Hey!"

"Sorry. Other than coin and fun."

"That's better."

Aveline makes a face at her, a silent "quiet now" before returning her attention to Hawke. Her right eyebrow rises high. "And also, you're _always_ up to something. You wouldn't be Marian bloody Hawke if you weren't."

At that, _Hawke_ makes a face. "Marian 'Bloody' Hawke? Tell me that's not the name they're putting on flyers now. No one's even supposed to know my damn first name. Serves me right for letting Varric know about it, I suppose."

Laughing, Aveline reaches over to yank (gently) on a lock of Hawke's unbound hair. "Dammit, Hawke, stop deflecting. What's going on?"

"Ouch, hey!"

"Stop whining, I didn't hurt you."

"It's something to do with Fenris," Isabela says, determined now more than ever to know just what's happening. "We all know you two finally kissed and made up—"

"Emphasis on the 'finally'," Aveline interjects.

"Indeed. So what is it?" She bites her lip, imagination already wild with possibilities. "Are you getting an early start on foreplay? I bet it's the bodice. I always pegged the boy as a fan of leather."

Hawke's eyes roll, though her grin doesn't fade. "'Bela, you say that about _every_ man. I think you've bedded too many tanners."

"No, just a lusty Antivan, but that's beside the point." She slings an arm over Hawke's shoulders. "Come _on_, tell us! Juicy gossip is part of being a friend. Especially the sordid kind."

"I can do without the sordid," Aveline says with a stern little sniff. "_But_ I am curious. And I may abuse my station to find out, so out with it."

Hawke isn't put off in the slightest, she laughs heartily while Isabela grins at Aveline. "I have never been prouder to know you, Big Girl."

Aveline bows her head, just a bit. "Thank you, Whore."

"Fine, yes, it's about Fenris but it _isn't_ what you think," Hawke says once she's done laughing. She takes another drink of her whiskey, purposefully slow because she knows they're hanging on. Beautiful bitch. "All right, so we 'made up', as you two so artfully put it."

"I could have said you got over your stupid," Aveline tells her.

"That _he_ got over _his_ stupid," Hawke corrects her. "I've wanted him for six blighted years and I've never said different, thanks."

"Yes, yes you pined like a good girl, get on with it," Isabela says.

Hawke's eyes narrow. "There is nothing good about me, take it back or you find someone else to help you rig that fancy new ship of yours, wench."

Aveline cuts off the retort blooming on Isabela's tongue. "You're both entirely awful. Get on with it, Hawke."

Her nose wrinkles at them both, but Hawke obeys. "Ugh. Fine. Fenris and I made up, declared intentions, all that toothachey stuff. We haven't been fucking, though."

"Andraste's tits, _why_?!" Isabela isn't sure what's more horrific, the fact that Aveline said what she was thinking first or the travesty that is two insanely good looking people like Hawke and Fenris aren't rutting holes in her mattress.

"We—and by that I mean me—decided that, until I'm sure he isn't going to hit the ground running the morning after, _again_, sex is off the table," Hawke tells them. She smiles down into her whiskey. "I plan on cracking his willpower like an egg."

A mortified "Hawke!" comes from Aveline the same time that Isabela exclaims, "That is the most deliciously devious thing I've ever heard you say."

"Thank you," Hawke nods to her then turns a reproving stare on Aveline. "And don't you 'Hawke' me. Three years ago, I got my heart smashed to bits and didn't stab him in the face afterward. That deserves quite a bit of consideration, thanks. Don't pretend that if Donnic got scared off by his feelings then took forever sorting them out you wouldn't feel just a little entitled to screwing with him."

"Please," Isabela says, "Aveline would have bashed him over the head and shackled him to the bed until he agreed to cooperate."

"Careful whore." She doesn't deny it, though, Isabela notes.

"That idea is not without appeal," Hawke says. "That's for later though. The plan as of right now just has me driving him as crazy as I can without taking my trousers off. We've both been hard up for about three years, so, I see him losing his mind and tossing me on the bed any day now. Then, once I've got him _in_ the bed, I'm flipping him on his back, tying him down, and starting from scratch."

Isabela is rarely at a loss for words. She can't even muster an "I'm so proud of you!" All she can do is clap. And cackle. Mostly at Aveline's face which has gone the shade of a beetroot.

Hawke smirks right back at her. "Here! Here! Watch him when I do this." Shaking her hair back off of her shoulders, Hawke pops her chest out just a little.

At the card table, Fenris tenses then shivers and lowers his forehead to his fist.

"Maker, you are evil," Aveline says. "And brilliant. But mostly evil."

Isabela cannot resist a good game. "Ooh! So if I do this…" She wraps both arms around Hawke's middle, resting her chin on the other woman's shoulder. It's nothing dirty, Hawke and Isabela had a few drunken feel-ups back before Hawke's feelings for Fenris had cemented. It _is_ personal, though. Probably more personal than Fenris would like now that the two of them officially put a claim on one another.

Fenris' face has gone red and it looks like Merril is asking if he's all right.

"I'm not responsible if he goes for your heart, 'Bela," Hawke warns. She doesn't push her away, though, or stop grinning.

"He would never. I'm his favorite next to you."

"Actually, I think that would be—"

"Shush! _I'm_ the favorite next to you. Don't ruin the fantasy. Also…why does your hair smell like apples?" She buries her nose into Hawke's dark brown nape.

The other rogue laughs again. "Orlesian soap. Fenris likes apples."

"Maker, you _are_ going to drive him mad."

"Yes I am," Hawke says quite proudly. She nudges Isabela to let her go then motions to Corff. He hands her a glass of wine as well as her usual whiskey. "Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have work to do. I'm going to see if I can throw him off enough that Anders might actually not come in last tonight."

Aveline shakes her head fondly at Hawke's back. Back at the table, Fenris, looking a little less agitated, takes the proffered glass of wine and gets a kiss to go with it. The sight warms even Isabela's heart, somewhere in the deep, dark place where she locked it up. Hawke loves Fenris, with all of herself, and the same is true of him. She's just a touch vindictive, but, Isabela supposes, Fenris knew that already and decided it was part of the charm.

"How long do you give them?" she asks Aveline.

The guard captain snorts. "They've been reconciled what, three days? I'll be amazed if she doesn't have him on that damn table."

"Aw, you're such a romantic."

"Shut up, Whore." She says it with an almost affectionate sort of smile.


	6. Getting There

**Author's Note:** I feel like it's only fair to warn y'all that some heavy things get glossed over in here, i.e. that Danarius used Fenris sexually, which is Bioware cannon according to an interview done with the game's head writer, David Gaider. It's not a lot, to write about a character dealing with sexual abuse is something that would require a whole novel (I think) to do the issue justice and I don't have the time or discipline to do it said justice. I will say, however, that I truly think that Bioware did the right thing in putting three years between Hawke and Fenris' night of passion and the final cementation of their relationship. It was tasteful and didn't treat Hawke as if they possessed magical genitalia that could cure all old wounds. I'm trying to be brief but respectful, so please proceed knowing that a few triggery things _may_ come up.

**Disclaimer:** Bioware owns it.

* * *

After he leaves her, it's almost two weeks before Fenris sees Hawke again. At least, face to face. He's not above watching her from a distance, they don't live that far apart, after all. It thrills and sickens him when he sees the usual spring gone from her step; he never gets close enough to read her face but he imagines her eyes are downcast. He hates himself for that because a part of him _needs_ it to be true. He's selfish.

The cruelest things are his dreams; all that they bring him are misery and regret. Fenris has so many nights where he feels Hawke's skin on his. Her supple limbs coiled about his frame, her tight heat engulfing him, the drag of her breasts against his chest as they move, and especially the glitter of need in her golden eyes. Those treasured sensations turn to phantoms; he is left haunted, aching, and alone when he wakes.

Worse, though, are the nightmares where Hawke is not Hawke, where she turns into Hadriana or Danarius and he wakes sick. His stomach turns on itself and it takes hours of retching and cold water for him feel as if peeling of his skin won't be the only way to feel clean again.

Aveline all but breaks down his front door on the twelfth day of his self-imposed exile at the crack of dawn.

"Get your armor on and grab that blasted hammer Hawke gave you." The guard captain's greeting leaves much to be desired. As does the way that she sweeps past him into the foyer. To say that it doesn't sit well with Fenris, after more than a week of bad sleeping, eating, and more drink than is wise, is an understatement.

"Do come in, Aveline." It's not prudent to throw venom in the face of one of the few people he considers a friend. Even more unwise considering Aveline is among the even fewer people who could punch him in the face and make it hurt like hell. Luckily, independent to either detail, she is also in possession of the kind of patience that the Divine would envy.

Instead of punching him, she wrinkles her nose and crosses her arms, saying, "Maker, you smell two breaths better than the Hanged Man in summer."

Then again punching, he muses, might be better. Fenris clenches his fists hard enough to make the joints of his knuckles creak. "What do you _want_, Aveline?"

"Hubert's got Hawke cleaning up a new mess at the Bone Pit. I told her I would go but I can't and I will not have her going there with only Merril, Anders, and Isabela to watch her back." Her arms uncross and go to her hips, an intimidating stance to say the least. "Merril is sweet but she's not perceptive, Anders can heal but he's a tit, and Isabela is…_Isabela_. I trust three other people to keep Hawke's head above water. Bethany's locked away and Varric's indisposed by the blasted Merchant's Guild so that leaves you. You're going."

Panic flares in Fenris' chest, sharp and merciless. It spreads outward as a burst from a lyrium keg might, the force feels as if it could stop his heart. If the thing weren't already lodged in his throat.

"Aveline, I ca—"

She's as harsh as the pain beneath his ribcage. "This isn't an argument, Fenris. I've kept the Watch patrols off of you for three years without complaint because we're friends. I'm calling in this favor and you _will_ go." Aveline stares him down with the might of a High Dragon; he doesn't doubt that a word of disagreement will be met with flames. "Be outside of the Hanged Man by nine bells. And for Andraste's sake, take a bath first."

And as brusquely as she blew in, Aveline goes, leaving Fenris with his jaw on the floor and his heart all but stopped.

#

"I can't imagine what Hawke sees in you."

He goes, of course he does. Aveline gave him no other recourse. He plans to make her pay for it, though, how he's going to manage that is another problem.

Hawke hasn't looked at him since he showed up at the Hanged Man. He was allotted five seconds of wide-eyed surprise laced with hurt before she turned away. Orders and plans have all been relayed in a cold monotone, with her face turned somewhere else, maps, one of the other companions, the horizon—everywhere and anywhere but his face.

And now he's stuck with Anders while Hawke takes Isabela and Merril to scout ahead. This may not be the worst day of Fenris' life but it's going close to the top.

He clenches his fists; killing the Abomination won't repair anything. Though, it would make him feel so much better. "It is done. Leave it be." Fenris sincerely hopes that Anders can guess how thin the ice is getting will remember what happens when his lyrium tattoos start to glow.

Anders, however, is a little bit shortsighted. Not that he wasn't already aware of that. _Justice._ "Well good. I always knew she had _some_ sense."

It takes every ounce of Fenris' willpower to restrain his fist from crushing Anders' heart. Instead, he whirls on the Abomination, teeth bared. He must look imposing enough, Anders backpedals a few feet.

"Do not make light of this." The words leave his mouth as sandpaper might, gritty and spat off his tongue. "Leaving was the hardest thing I've ever done."

Something else is going to be said. He can see the light of defiance in Anders' eye and the venom curling in his sneer. Fenris doesn't think he'll be able to restrain himself against killing the Abomination. This is _not_ the thing for Anders to push.

The dissolution of this conflict comes from the most unlikely source. Isabela is usually quite the little instigator.

As if the two men in her company aren't contemplating murder, the (former) pirate slides in between them, draping an arm over each of their shoulders. Her grin is wicked, even coy, but Fenris doesn't miss the miasmic flask palmed in her left fist. She's prepared to knock them both out.

How is it possible to admire and hate someone so in the same breath?

"Oh, will you two get over yourselves? You're like two dogs around a bitch in heat."

"We were talking about Hawke. Not you." He's not sure why he responds. Isabela is almost as adept at provoking him as Hawke is.

Something in his chest lurches. No. No one has ever be under his skin like Hawke, no one ever will be.

Isabela's grin widens. "Aw. That hurts. In any case, time for you sweet things to go play on opposite sides of the yard." She removes her arm from Fenris' shoulder so that she can push the small of Anders' back, none too subtly pointing him to another outcropping that looks over the mines. "Run along now, you. Go think up some classy new lines for that drab manifesto of yours while you keep watch."

"Drab?!"

"I call them like I see them."

Anders grumbles but he listens. Isabela is one of the few who can always be counted on for that.

"Come on," she jerks her head toward the mine. "There's a jammed passageway down there and it stinks of dragon." She doesn't wait for a response, turning on her heel and ordering Anders to come check on them in an hour if nothing's heard. Fenris sighs then follows through the gaping maw that that holds the Bone Pit's newest disaster.

Merril is using her magic to clear the rubble when they make it down. He's grudging to admit it, but the witch has her uses. They're few but potent.

"Okay, Merril, I think that's got it," Hawke says. She sticks her head through the new entryway, looking about. "Dammit, I don't like all this. Hubert's got to stop this shit and put coin in for proper struts and enforcement. I swear if this collapses on us I'll chain him down here naked."

"And I will help," Isabela chirps. "That is _if_ we survive the collapse that you've pretty much guaranteed now that you went and talked it up."

Hawke shrugs. "What's one more life-or-death situation between friends? Come on. Merril, give us some light." Without waiting to make sure that she's heard, Hawke takes point, and they, as always, follow.

Isabela was right about the place stinking of dragon. Fenris could just about choke on the overbearing scent of sulfur and char. There are no dragons to be seen, however, and fire becomes their last worry after several long minutes of traipsing through the tunnel.

It starts as a low rumble. Hawke hears it at the same time Fenris does, she's already holding up her hand, signaling for a stop when he pauses to listen. The little rocks on the ground begin to quiver not a second later and Hawke's face loses all color.

"Back to the opening! Go! Go! _Go_!"

No one questions. Isabela grabs Merril, all but hoisting the other woman over her shoulder as she sprints. Fenris says a few choice words in Arcanum, pausing only to make sure Hawke is running as well. She is, and outpaces him within moments. She looks at him for the first time since this morning, fear lighting her golden eyes, right before a great rush of water overtakes them.

Fenris knows cold, wetness, a flash of pain, and then darkness.

#

Every inch of Fenris is freezing when he comes to, even his insides. Every inch, that is, save for his mouth. Mostly because someone is breathing into him, forcing air into his lungs from their own. He feels hands on his chest, pressing rapidly, hears a familiar voice counting. All of this registers right before Fenris opens his eyes and what feels like a tidal wave is spit out of his lungs.

His savior jumps back just in time to avoid catching all of that in the face. While he coughs, they move behind him, helping him to sit up while he coughs until his chest burns and no more excess fluids can come up. Fenris is lightheaded when it's all done, panting like a dog in summer as he tries to get his breath back and prays that the buzzing in his ears soon stops.

Hawke is the first thing that really registers for him. She slides out from behind him as the coughing subsides, taking his face between her palms, examining, worried. He reaches out to do the same without thinking about it. Her lower lip has been split and there's a terrible bruise across her cheek. He wants to brush his lips against them both, to staunch her pain.

All that stops him is he lacks the strength and most of his motor function. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Listen to me. What's your name and what year is it? Tell me quick."

He blinks and licks his lips, trying to concentrate. "Fenris. 9:34 Dragon."

Her sigh of relief shakes her whole body. "Okay. Good. That's good." She continues to hold his face. All of Hawke is wet, all of _both_ of them is wet, but her eyes in particular, are moist.

"I thought—I thought you were…" her voice shakes and she can't finish. Hawke jerks away suddenly, pressing her wrist against her mouth and while the other rakes her hair. It's evident she can't look at him any longer.

The soreness of his throat and lungs is nothing when compared with what that does to his heart. He almost reaches for her. Fear keeps him in place, however, as it seems it always will.

Her head whips back toward him an instant later. There's a new fire in her golden eyes, bright enough that they're almost orange. "I am mad at you, dammit," she growls.

"I know." It's all he can say.

"_I mean it_!" She pushes at his chest—he notices now that she yanked his breastplate and vest apart to revive him—hard, almost sending him sprawling backward. "You fucked me, ran away, and then vanished. I have every right to never speak to you again."

"I know." Fenris wouldn't call what they had done "fucking" but he knows better than to correct her right now.

"And—_and_!" She wields those three letters like one of her knives. "I have _not_ forgotten how you thought I was going to keep Orana as a slave. I know we don't agree on much, Fenris, but how could you believe that little of me?"

Maker, if he wasn't already bashed to bits. He had forgotten about that. The belated shame nearly rends him unconscious all over again. He'll never be able to make that accusation up to her. "I'm a fool," he answers, because he is. "That was—_is_ unforgivable."

"Damn right it is!" she snaps. "You're nothing but a moody ass most of the time and when you aren't—" She stops, as if she can't say anymore. It isn't necessary, Fenris hears her, reads it all in her fire-gold eyes.

_When you aren't, you're breaking my heart instead_.

Hawke looks away first, exhaustion seeping in, dragging her shoulders down.

"For the record, avoiding me is absolute shit." She's still looking away, rubbing at her nose with the inside of her wrist. "I thought you'd gone on the run again."

"I am not leaving," he says and it is a promise. It's the only promise he might be able to offer her. Fenris couldn't leave Kirkwall—leave _her_ if he tried. Even if she took another lover or turned to the chantry, Hawke's side is something he will never abandon.

An admission he can't speak, unfortunately.

"Bloody right you're not." Her chin goes out, stubborn, eyes ablaze. It frustrates him to no end that she always has to have the last word, demands so much control. And he adores it twice as much.

Silence washes over them for a few moments. Hawke regains her composure and Fenris breathes. After a bit she rises off her haunches and pulls two Restoration Potions from her belt. Uncorking one, Hawke tosses the second to him.

"How do you feel about climbing?" she asks, nodding upward, after drinking the potion. The swelling and purple on her face starts to fade at once.

Fenris follows her nod to an opening about twenty to thirty feet above their heads. Daylight and blue sky fill peak through; it's more than wide enough for a body.

Drinking the orangeish swill, Fenris' aches and sluggish bones begin stirring.

"Marginally not awful," he tells her.

The corners of Hawke's mouth twitch. "Get your armor back on, then. You're going up first in case I have to catch your ungainly arse."

He snorts but does not doubt her. For all that he has done, Fenris knows implicitly that Hawke will always be at his back.

#

Three days later Fenris trudges tentatively into the Hanged Man. The weekly card game is under way and everyone is at the table in Varric's suite. He's late, not by much, but the first hand is already underway and Anders is already losing. Or at least that's what he gathers from the scowl he wears and the way Hawke ruffles his hair.

All talk stops when he's noticed, with even Varric appearing apprehensive. All eyes flick to Hawke.

She notices last and when she does surprise lights her face. His stomach knots.

Then she smirks. "Oh good. More easy coin. Deal him in, Varric."

It's all right. Well, perhaps not all right. Things between them are far from settled but, for now, they'll trudge on as they have been.

"Easy my backside," he says, good-naturedly, of course, taking the chair between Isabela and Aveline. "You only win because you cheat and no one's caught you yet."


End file.
